


Testament

by Exxact



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Claiming, F/F, Femslash, Half Porn Half Plot, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Pon Farr, Possessive Behavior, Post-Episode: s02e05 Amok Time, Star Trek Femslash, Trektober 2020, Vaginal Fingering, Vulcan Culture, Vulcan Kisses, possessive vulcans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:06:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27106186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exxact/pseuds/Exxact
Summary: T’Pring growls, tugging Christine against her.  “You will be marked as She Who is My Wife, and then, when the plak tow takes me, you will be claimed.”“I think I can gather what claiming entails, but marking?”T’Pring’s voice is low, her eyes closed as she presses her nose against Christine’s jugular.  “I will scent you and make the evidence of your pleasure in being She Who is My Wife detectable by others.”“Oh!” Christine exclaims with a laugh.  “Well, yes!  Let’s do that!”Written for TrekTober Day 16: Biting/Marking.  T’Pring explains the finer points of marking and claiming to her new mate before the plak tow takes her.
Relationships: Christine Chapel/T'Pring, Implied Scones, James T. Kirk/Spock
Comments: 2
Kudos: 97
Collections: Trektober 2020





	Testament

“Well, well, well. Look who finally made it off of Risa and back to this hormone-infested tin can.”

Despite his stomping and grunting, Christine catches the genuine relief in Len’s voice when he claps Geoff on the shoulder. “I came as soon as I could,” he replies, checking the comm that Len has been hovering over for the past 42 hours. “Spock’s stabilized, you said, and there’s no message from the Captain here—where are Chris and Lady T’Pring?”

“On your left,” Christine waves, slotting the last of the muscle relaxant hypos into her kit. Even the sound of it snapping closed causes Len to twitch.

“Well, I got us most of the way through Round One. Like I said in the briefing—I have Jim trained to check in every hour by now, but the worst of it should be over within the next six. T’Pring’s been in it for the last two days, from what I can guesstimate. Good luck getting her down here for an examination—I bribed her with Christine, peach cobbler, and all my medical books, and she’s still choosing to meditate until it becomes unbearable.”

Christine sighs, lifting her kit and walking towards the door. “Len, you did your best. T’Pring may not seem it, but she’s mortified by all of this. She had no idea when she enlisted that Spock’s _pon farr_ could even be re-activated by—“

“Yeah, yeah, something something biology of Vulcans,” Len grumbles, not leaving the comm until he’s sure that Geoff is watching it as intently as he had been. “Don’t bother apologizing for it for the hundredth time—unless she’s lying and she knew this would happen. In that case, she owes me several bottles of whatever they use to get drunk on her planet. Or her shore leave time. Got a lot of hypos here that could use some unpacking.”

Geoff snorts. “I’ll haul some of those out here after the Captain does his check-in, but I still think I should get Lady T’Pring down here for a preliminary exam. I’ve never heard of _pon farr_ starting like this—are you sure she can make it through with just a jar of sand?” 

“I don’t know,” Christine sighs, her hand rubbing her collarbone. “I just know that she packed it with Lady T’Pau’s approval before we set off from Vulcan and that Mr. Spock has been able to get through his without even that—he’s only had the Captain.”

“I’m not the specialist here, but I’m certain that Spock’s been bonded to Jim for a hell of a lot longer than that little ceremony after they rolled in the sand. You and T’Pring, though—it’s fresh. You barely know each other, brain-sharing or not. There’s no telling what she’ll do.”

“Oh, not this again, Len!”

Geoff snaps his fingers, interrupting them. “Well, I’ll end up with at least two bodies in the morgue if you both stay on your feet much longer. Get out of here!”

Len shoots him a look but follows Christine out. “You’ve got the easy round!” he shouts back, whipping out his private comm and sighing with relief. “I trust Chris a damn sight more to know her limits!”

Christine bats her eyelashes and mock-coos her thanks, which, naturally, causes Len to mimic her. It’s several moments before they all stop laughing at the sheer absurdity of the situation enough to leave.

“I’ll walk you back to your suite,” Christine says once they’re in the turbolift, both immediately slumping against the wall. If Len isn’t still teasing her, she knows he’s already halfway asleep.

“Naw, I know where I’m heading. You run off and go play with that Vulcan’a yours while I wait for Jim to wake me up in an hour for a splinter and not the rib he’s broken.”

Despite his protests, Christine still watches to make sure that Len’s able to open his door before giving proper attention to the dozen roses in a basket outside her own. The affixed card bears Geoff’s unmistakable handwriting. 

Beaming, Christine sets the bundle down in the alcove of the entryway, her senses nearly overwhelmed with the heat and spice of incense that T’Pring usually keeps to her own assigned quarters. However, even being only a shared bathroom away is too distant from Christine’s scent for her now. Warmth unfurls in Christine’s chest at the sight of her, stripped to her meditation trousers, two of Christine’s pillows bracketing her knees. Her eyes are open yet unfocused, staring at the vessel that contains the sacred sand.

Christine waits for T’Pring to notice her. When she does, T’Pring instantly rises, pacing around Christine twice, her footfalls silent.

“You’re circling me,” Christine tuts, smiling despite T’Pring’s expression, which is somehow even more stern than usual.

“I detected movement 1.34 minutes before you arrived. A stranger. The paneling on this ship is insufficient in blocking sound.”

_Her sense of time is beginning to distort_. Christine keeps smiling regardless, gripping her medkit more tightly. “Well, Geoff—Doctor M’Benga’s—no threat. He was leaving us a gift, actually. Just our luck to have him attending a conference on Risa when we have two Vulcans in need here!”

T’Pring’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “Show me the items.” 

“It’s just some roses—oh, and tea and candies beneath them,” Christine reassures her in the same tone she would one of her patients as she rifles through the foil under T’Pring’s scrutiny. 

“What is his motivation for giving them to you and I? Humans do not present gifts without an expectation of reciprocation in some way, however unrelated to the occasion.”

Christine sighs, leaning into T’Pring’s mindset rather than fighting it, finding herself laughing when she answers. “He just wants to examine you before it becomes dangerous to do so. He did his medical internship on Vulcan. Like Len and I, he’s concerned about how the proximity of a former—of how Mr. Spock being on the same ship might affect your symptoms.”

“None but my mate will touch me as I enter the _plak tow_. I have informed both you and Doctor McCoy of this multiple times.”

Christine sets down the basket and medkit on the bedside table, her smile falling. “Has it begun?”

“It will begin in 5.49 hours. I will return to my meditative state for as long as possible once you have been sufficiently marked.”

“Marked?” Christine asks, her voice an octave higher than normal.

“Yes,” T’Pring hisses, her chest shuddering. “You must be marked. Then you will be claimed.”

The heat thrumming through Christine suddenly has nothing to do with the temperature of the room. “I’m unfamiliar with the distinction.”

T’Pring growls, tugging Christine against her. “You will be marked as She Who is My Wife, and then, when the _plak tow_ takes me, you will be claimed.”

“I think I can gather what claiming entails, but marking?”

T’Pring’s voice is low, her eyes closed as she presses her nose against Christine’s jugular. “I will scent you and make the evidence of your pleasure in being She Who is My Wife detectable by others.”

“Oh!” Christine exclaims with a laugh. “Well, yes! Let’s do that!”

“Vulcans are territorial by nature. There is logic in such, as I have shown you over the past 14.3 days of our bond,” T’Pring continues, squeezing Christine to her in a graceless sort of hug. “Were you to speak again with Doctor M’Benga, I would not be so gracious.”

_Distortion of time twice accompanying a skin temperature increase_. “But Len was here earlier to walk with me to our shifts and you didn’t even look up from your meditations.”

“Because Doctor McCoy is claimed.”

Christine frowns—an expression at war with her amusement at the glare T’Pring is fixing on the gift basket over her shoulder. “By a Vulcan? You and Mr. Spock are the only ones aboard.”

“By the Chief Engineer,” T’Pring corrects, extracting herself from Christine long enough to deposit the basket back outside. She stalks towards Christine, her voice lowering. “His scent lingers on Doctor McCoy, even if he was not properly marked.”

“They’re just old friends! Not every pair of humans who touch is in a—well, is mated.”

T’Pring arches her eyebrows in annoyance, her body visibly tensing. “I made contact with the skin of Doctor McCoy’s left hand as I reached for the hypospray he was requesting to inject me with yesterday. Their first attempt at copulation occurred 8.16 hours prior to my arrival on the ship.”

“Oh, touch telepath, that’s right,” Christine nods, closing her eyes against the image of Len and Scotty’s _attempt at copulation_ , whenever that might actually have been. She steps closer to T’Pring, resting her head against the curve of her neck. “Well, right now, I’m only concerned about _my_ mate. How should we begin?”

T’Pring extends her right hand, folding all but her index and middle finger downwards into her palm. “This is _ozh’esta_ ,” she says, her breath hitching almost imperceptibly as Christine mirrors the action. “To press your fingers to mine when my fingers are presented in _ozh’esta_ is the proper announcement of your status as She Who is My Wife.”

A shiver runs through Christine. “It looks similar to our finger kisses. Would it help the bond to meld like this?”

“ _Ozh’esta_ is not a true meld—only a surface detection of one’s thoughts. Remnants of my own may pass through the bond, though I have fortified my mental shields so that my approaching _plak tow_ will not affect you until it is necessary. Extend your hand as I have mine, and I will lower them to the best of my ability.”

Christine does so, yelping the second their fingers brush. Her arm, her head—it burns, pain roaring through her like the worst migraine of her life until T’Pring forcibly separates them.

“This is—this is what you feel? In your mind?” she manages to ask, clutching her throbbing fingers.

“Yes. It is bearable—for now.”

“No!” Christine exclaims, barely resisting the urge to pull T’Pring close. “I won’t wait until you’re half-dead of whatever’s roasting you alive to help you with it! I’m going to comm Geoff and we’re going to sedate you. This is inhumane!”

“ _Sochya_ , _ashayam_. It is inhumane because it is the way of Vulcans. I will not make an exception of myself by attempting to stop the _plak tow_.”

_“Vulcans know how to be Vulcans,”_ Christine hears Nyota’s voice remind her. “Okay,” Christine grits out, her words sharp. “If that’s what you want, then at least let me replicate something. You haven’t eaten today, have you?”

“I have not. If this is a veiled request for me to eat, then yes, I would be amenable to it.”

_There’s my T’Pring._ “The only replicator with plomeek soup programmed in is on the deck below us. Do you mind if I go down there to get it?”

“It is not ideal, but you are logical to suggest that I eat. However, it is necessary that I mark you before you leave our quarters. Allow me to raise my mental shields fully once more.”

Christine’s gaze flickers to where she put the medkit beside her bed. When she looks back towards T’Pring, her bondmate’s eyes are closed in meditation.

“I have restored my mental shields, _ko-telsu_ ,” T’Pring says, opening them a fraction of a second later. “My touch will not bring you harm. I will scent your wrists and breasts before using my fingers to help you achieve orgasm.” 

Christine nods, her mind barely processing the last few words T’Pring speaks. Right now, she’s simply focused on doing whatever she can to bring her bondmate comfort.

“Sit before me on the bed.”

Christine does so, watching as T’Pring moves to stand in front of her, raising her fingers in _ozh’esta_. Christine mimics the gesture without hesitation, though her hand shakes as she waits for T’Pring to react.

“When I wish to beckon you close in any setting now, I will say: ‘My wife, attend’. You will then meet my fingers in _ozh’esta_.”

Christine’s smile is tight, her nerves sizzling as T’Pring presses their fingers together. This time, however, there is only the brush of her too-hot skin against T’Pring’s own.

“That was nice,” Christine murmurs, lowering her hand after T’Pring does. She grips the edge of the bed in surprise when, instead of leaning in for a kiss, T’Pring unzips Christine’s uniform, ripping the band at the back of her bra. Despite the heat of the room, goosebumps raise along Christine’s bare chest and arms. 

T’Pring’s hands knead Christine’s breasts as she buries her face in the hollow between them. “ _Vaksurik fnish-tor_.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Christine whimpers, arching into T’Pring. She feels her tongue trace the undersides of both of her breasts, her skin gently catching on the texture of it. T’Pring’s licks continue for several moments, each pass of her tongue along the path she’s created causing Christine to become more and more wet.

“I hunger to claim you,” T’Pring says, her words barely intelligible. She pulls away from Christine long enough to sit behind her, straddling the bed with Christine caught between her legs. “I will mark you, claim you, breed you. _T’nash-veh_.” 

_“That Vulcan’a yours need a biology lesson?”_ Christine hears Len chortle, crying out with surprise when T’Pring yanks up her skirt. Her hands move to cover herself, but T’Pring catches them, pinning her wrists behind her with the hand not brushing against her pantyhose.

“Honey, what are you doing down there?”

T’Pring does not look up from her task, her hands sliding into Christine’s panties. Her fingers begin to rub against her clit, and Christine exhales sharply.

“As I said, I will bring you to orgasm,” she explains, her ragged breath tickling Christine’s neck. “Then you may depart, but you must remain in these garments afterwards.” 

Christine’s face flushes so quickly, she feels herself grow lightheaded. “Well, if it’s going to help you,” she breathes, wriggling herself deeper into T’Pring’s lap.

“To give She Who is My Wife pleasure brings me satisfaction as her mate. To mark her is an honor.”

Christine feels herself squirm in delight as T’Pring applies more pressure to her touch. _Who would’ve thought a Vulcan could be just as much of a hopeless romantic as I am?_

T’Pring’s motions quiet any further thoughts, her teeth pressed against the base of Christine’s skull. Each movement grinds Christine’s pinned wrists against the damp skin of T’Pring’s navel, as timeless and mindless as the grunting of T’Pring’s breaths along her skin.

“Darling, I’m going to—“ Christine gasps, jolting forward as she comes, smiling when she feels strong arms bracket her, saving her from toppling over.

“ _Marom_ ,” Christine hears as if from a great distance, her wrists released from T’Pring’s grip. She leans backwards, splaying them along the length of the bed in order to observe T’Pring. The temperature of her skin is hotter than Christine has ever felt it, the usual purring she associates with these moments garbled by pain she could barely endure a second of.

“Perhaps I should've asked Geoff to put some catnip in that basket,” she pants, her eyes desperate to close in sleep. Instead, she counts T’Pring’s breaths, relieved when they come steadily.

“I am not a Terran feline.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Christine replies, tapping T’Pring’s nose with the tip of her index finger.

“I am being mocked,” T’Pring frowns, swiping her tongue against Christine’s chin to clean off what she assumes is lipstick. “She Who Is My Wife should revere me instead.”

Christine kisses her nose, looking up through her eyelashes. “Well, how about I go forage for that plomeek soup I mentioned before and then you can mock me all you like?”

“A logical course of action.”

+

After a final once-over by T’Pring deems her marking to have been effective, Christine makes her way to the turbolift, barely sparing a wave for Janice and the four Operations ensigns following her like a flock of geese. She takes a deep, shuddering breath and is glad to note that she can’t smell how she’s spent the past hour.

“Nurse, heal thyself,” she mutters as she closes her eyes, very much wishing for either a turbolift malfunction or a freeze in the space-time continuum while she naps—whichever will cause the least amount of paperwork.

Naturally, when Christine does reach the replicator wall, it’s occupied by a uniform-clad but reeking Kirk chugging down an energy drink.

“Captain,” she acknowledges, too tired to suppress the laugh at the sheepish look he gives her as she raises her eyebrows at the can he’s holding. Now that she’s close enough to see the laxness of his body, it’s apparent that it's from exhaustion rather than fear or pain.

“So, plomeek soup?” he asks, licking his lips while he watches Christine make her selection. 

“Yes, of course,” Christine replies with a wide, placating smile, pressing the corresponding button. She’d written the code for it herself along with the chocolate nutrient shake and soda crackers and, despite Spock’s criticism, remains proud of her recipe.

“Plomeek soup,” Kirk repeats, nodding his head. “Good choice. Spock’s been drinking it by the barrel since—during this. There’s _kreyla_ available now, too—it’s a kind of stale bread. I had Scotty program it in next to the soup with the code Doctor M’Benga sent yesterday. In his boxers and swearing the whole time, but it’s working as of two hours ago.” 

Christine fiddles with her hair as she listens to the barrage of words, watching as Kirk crosses and uncrosses his arms, revealing bruises on his wrists identical to her own. She makes a sound of acknowledgement, pressing the button for basil and adding it to the bowl before covering it. 

“You’ll want the _kreyla_ too, trust me. Helps keep the soup down.”

With some trepidation, Christine presses the button, tearing off a piece once it’s materialized. “Stale is right,” she says under her breath. 

Kirk replies with an unfamiliar, uncertain laugh. Over his shoulder, Christine sees Spock walking towards them, his stride eerily similar to T’Pring’s earlier circling. Save for that and the pronounced hollows of his cheeks, there is no evidence as to the ordeal he’s undergoing. 

Spock’s eyes linger upon Christine’s wrists as he comes to stand beside Kirk, his nostrils widening. “Captain, your presence is required elsewhere. Ms. Chapel, I see that you are occupied already.”

Kirk shrugs, tossing Christine a wink. “Well, duty calls. I’d offer to walk you back, but…”

Christine smiles, giving an understanding nod to Spock. “I think I know the way. Call Doctor M’Benga if either of you need anything.”

“Wait, what about Bones?”

Christine shakes her head. “He's earned a rest. Between T’Pring’s arrival and everything else…” she trails off, seconds before Spock lets out a barely-audible hiss.

Kirk rushes to him, laying a hand on Spock’s lower back. “I’d really better go, Christine. Take care.”

With two extra nutrient shakes in tow, Christine makes her way back towards the turbolift she’d come down on, able to hear a murmur of “Jim” before the doors shut against the tableau of Spock’s face buried against Kirk’s throat. A giggle, both anxious and anticipatory, rises in her own as she walks to the one down the hall.

_Now, let’s see if “mocking me” involves another bowl of soup aimed at my head…_

**Author's Note:**

> Sochya—peace  
> ko-telsu—wife  
> Vaksurik fnish-tor—beautiful smell  
> Marom—excellent


End file.
